The Rebirth Series
by NorthernStar
Summary: Crossover with The Sentinel. When Methos discovers a tribal watchmen over a century after they died out, he sets out to find the only remaining Guide - a deeply troubled Immortal called Blair Sandburg...
1. All that Glistens

Disclaimer:  I don't own them, etc.

Rating:  PG-13 / 12A

Series:  The "Rebirth" series.

Warnings:  Crossover universe - The Sentinel/Highlander.

Summary:  Methos discovers a tribal watchman over a century after they died out.

Notes:  This started out as a one off "encounter" story but just started growing.

**All that Glistens…**

By NorthernStar

There was something immoral about walking in the snow, gloriously warm under layers of clothing with a belly full of rich foods.  Methos scanned the snow covered park, eyes not really taking in the sloping open spaces and the knots of bare trees laden with white.  Children dragged toboggans past him, taking advantage of the icy sloping hillside of Cascade's central park, their laughter echoing through the frosty air, filled with the kind of joy Methos had never known.  He remembered long, bitter winters, over the span of many centuries, where the cold was all encompassing, almost a living thing, and the only heat came from the hatred in his heart.

But the world had moved on, the way it always did, and so had Methos.  

And as he walked through the characterless and neat man made wilderness in the midst of Cascade city, the sound of freshly lain snow crunching under foot, the heat inside him came this time from grief.  

Deep in his pocket, Methos' hand tightened around the thin strand of gold entwined about his fingers. Two hours ago he'd buried its owner and this was the only token of their life together that he had allowed himself to keep.  The rest was just dust and memories.  

He'd watched the coffin lower into the frozen ground and heard the stifled sobs of Leanne's family, smelt the incense wafting on the icy breeze and felt nothing but tiredness.  

His grief was spent, wicked away in the blaze of a quickening.  Torn and tossed and finally empty, he'd sank down next to the headless corpse of the Immortal who'd stolen Leanne's life from him and accepted that as past; there would no more tears for his lost love.  He had sat there until the cold began to leech into his bones and the dawn light reddened the sky with the approaching day.  By the time the sun sank back below the horizon, Leanne would be buried…and so would the persona of her lover.

Time for a new Methos… 

He had started walking when the funeral came to an end, and the mourners had all slipped quietly away.  He hadn't stopped since.  

"Stevie!  Look out!"  

The cry came the same moment something thumped into him, knocking him off balance.  Methos put out his hands to stop himself but the pathway was covered in ice and his momentum carried him down the slope, out of control.  He thudded to a halt at the bottom.

A kid ran over, scooting down the icy path with surprising poise.  "I'm sorry sir."  The kid said, grabbing Methos' arm to help him up.  "My brother's just got a really bad aim.  He didn't mean anything by it."

The boy threw a scowl at another child, standing well back, looking suitably apologetic and not a little frightened.  At any other time, Methos might have enjoyed that look, but it was all insignificant.  

"Be more careful."  He snapped and turned to leave, putting his hands back into his pocket to warm them, and to once again touch all he had left of Leanne.  His pocket was empty.  

Methos looked down at where he'd lain in the snow.  

The boy watched him as he got to his knees and began frantically brushing at the ground with his bare hands.

"Um…are you OK?"  

Methos looked up.  "I dropped something."  He muttered and moved a pace forward to search again.  "A necklace."

The boy raised his chin, stretching out to his fullest height and scanned the expanse of white.  Methos ignored him until the kid let out a yell and broke into a run.  

"I see it!"  He cried as he scooted across the thick snow.  Methos watched as the boy skidded to a halt a good 300 yards away and bent over to scoop something out of snow.  He held it up.

At this distance, he couldn't see the fine gold thread, but the yellowy winter sunshine caught on rich metal and it glinted in the light.

Methos broke into a run.  

The kid grinned at him as he handed back the necklace.  Methos saw that his adult front teeth were half grown down.  The kid was younger than he'd thought.  But that wasn't why he studied the boy so closely.

He took the necklace and returned it to his pocket.  He didn't thank him.    

The boy shuffled awkwardly at the appraisal until Methos broke the gaze to look back at where they'd stood searching, so far away.

Too far for normal vision.  

Then he looked back at the boy.  Really looked.  

It had been over 400 years since Methos had last seen a tribal watchman.  The modern world, so quick to leave such things behind, had no need of them.  Or so it thought.

But in all that time, he had never forgotten what they were; what they stood for.  Or what they looked like.

There was no doubt.  The child was a Sentinel.

"What's your name?"  His tone was hard, commanding.

"Jimmie."  The kid replied, responding instinctively to the note of command. "I mean, James Ellison."

Blair Sandburg had spent nearly all of his 800 years seeking out and guiding Sentinels, but lost touch with his quest about 150 years ago when the incidences of watchmen had been fewer and fewer.

And then there had been the war and the camps…

And here Methos was - tripping over one in Cascade, Washington

Methos' lips settled into an almost smile as he thought of his friend.  He had not seen Blair for several decades.  As far as he knew he was still in Tibet, seeking peace and enlightenment with the monks.  His former teacher, Naomi, had taken him there when he'd finally been released from Auschwitz. 

He had been there ever since, locked in the past.  

Methos' hand tightened around the precious strand of gold.  

"C'mon, Jimmie!"  The boy's brother yelled.  "Let's build a snowman!"

The kid turned to go.  "Bye."  Jimmie Ellison said, eyes meeting the Immortal's for a second before he hurried off in pursuit of his brother.  

Methos watched him go.  Then turned to carry on walking, but at least now he knew where he was going.  He had a purpose.  

It had been a long time since he'd seen Blair and now he had a message to deliver.  There was a future in that boy's eyes, something that might be an end of a journey for one Immortal…

…And the start of one for Methos.

Maybe they would all find what they were looking for.

~~FIN~~


	2. Seven Memories in Tibet

Disclaimer:  I don't own them, etc.

Rating:  PG-13 / 12A

Series:  The "Rebirth" series.

Warnings:  Crossover universe - The Sentinel/Highlander.

Summary:  Methos delivers his message…

**Seven Memories in ****Tibet******

By NorthernStar

The air was thin and crisp, sun bright in the clear sky. Colourful prayer flags flapped overhead, tattered and torn.  How many had he left over the years?  How many were Blair's?  Methos let his gaze wander over the old monastery, noting the little changes and heavy hand of time wearing the walls. It had been nearly 30 years since he'd last visited; a blink of an eye really, but long enough for the mortals he had known and come to respect to have aged or died.  

As he approached, pack heavy on his back, he caught glimpses of the monks in passing.  Some faces he recognised, most he did not.  A few paces from the door, the brush of an Immortal pressed on his senses and he stopped.

"Methos."

He turned at his name, recognising the harsh rasp of the only monk here not to have aged a day.

He broke into a smile.  "Ingsel."

The wrinkled Immortal clasped Methos' hands in his weather beaten pair.  "_Keh__-rang ku-su de-bo yin-peh?"_

The truth seemed hard to bear so he simply replied.  "I am well."  He let the hands fall away.  "And my friend?"

The monk fell into step beside him.  "Blair is here still."

Inside the ancient monastery, Ingsel led him to the small cell Methos had stayed in so many times over the last thousand years that he almost thought of it as his own.

Methos put down his bag and laid his sword on the thin mattress.  

"I forget," Ingsel murmured, as he picked up the sword, admiring the blade, "the hardships of the Game."

"Oh, I rarely fight these days."  But Methos took the sword back and carefully stowed it within easy reach.

"You always were a good liar, my friend."    

"Lies have their uses."

Ingsel smiled at the words.  "I hope you will debate with us."

He didn't want to mislead his friend.  "I've come for Blair."

There was a pause.  "I knew you would."  He said eventually.  There was a note of inevitability in his voice, and nothing of surprise.  "So did he."  Sadness bowed his shoulders.  "I shall miss him."

"He may not want to leave."

"What we want is immaterial.  He will go."  A small smile lifted the corners of his deeply lined mouth.  "It's time."  

Methos watched as Ingsel turned and walked away, his words finding resonance with Methos.  Ingsel had said that of Methos, a long time ago: Time to go, time to move on.

He had been right.

He would be right now too.

***

Methos found Blair beside the lake, sitting cross legged, deep in meditation.  He watched his friend from a distance.  Blair wore traditional Tibetan clothes and only the pale cream of his skin marked him as different from the hardy people of the villages Methos had passed through.  A long plait of hair reached down to his waist while odd stray curls framed his face.  

Methos went to his side and sat down to wait.  He had sensed Blair long before he'd reached the lake.  He knew Blair had felt him too.

It was just a matter of time.  And Methos had plenty of that.

Blair's body relaxed out of its meditative posture.  _"Gong-dhaa."_  He said softly.  _I'm sorry._

Surely he still wasn't apologising over Athens?  "Amanda's forgiven you."

"_Keh-rahng__?_"

"Oh, I'll need a good hundred years yet."

Methos watched the ripples on the lake.  Blair went back to meditation; closing his eyes and tucking his legs back up.  Methos watched him, face in profile and in peace.  There had been a time when Methos had thought Blair would never find peace again, unless it was in death.

And Methos had no interest in taking heads offered to him in pain.  

Naomi had been right to bring him here.

Methos almost smiled at the thought of Blair's teacher.  He had visited Naomi before coming here, almost as if he were asking permission.  She had made him promise to bring Blair straight to her if he decided to leave, still fretting over her 'sweetie' even after all these years.  That night they had stayed up, talking mostly about their lives now, but a little of Blair as well.  Reminiscing fondly of the century they'd all spent together in Peru when Blair was just a new Immortal.  He had found his first Sentinel in the tribe there and had learnt the arts and traditions of the watchmen at the side of the Sentinel's Shaman.  

In the morning, Naomi had served him tongue then taken him to bed.  

"I have something for you."  Methos said.  He held out a black and white photo, grainy from being taken at a distance.

He didn't open his eyes.  "_Dee__ kah-ray ray?_"

Methos frowned, bothered by the lack of English.  He liked English.  English was the most widely spoken language on the planet and he had been speaking it in one form or another for millennia.  He wasn't about to stop now.  "It's a Sentinel."

Blair's eyes opened, legs uncrossed slowly.  Then his slender fingers plucked the photograph from Methos' grasp.

"I don't have your gift for recognising them but I saw him find a necklace in snow from over 300 yards."

Blair was fixated on the fuzzy image of the gap-toothed boy.  "_Kah__-bah?_"

"In the United States."

Blair stared at the photo.  "_Keh-rahng__ gi ming la khong gi yin?_"

"James Ellison."  Methos took the picture back.  "He'll need Guiding."

Blair was silent for a long time and then…  _"Rey__._"  He agreed.

Methos returned the photo to his pocket.  "Or maybe you've forgotten how.  What's it been, hm?  A hundred?  Hundred and fifty years?"

Blue eyes studied him.  "_Gyah__ tamba __geh-chu__ sum._"

"Not that it matters.  He'll probably repress the ability in a few more years."  

There was no response and he didn't expect one.  The message was delivered.  His part was done.  If the promise of a Sentinel to Guide couldn't pull Blair from his nightmares of the death camps, then nothing would.  And if that was the case then he should be left in peace.  To live out eternity as best he saw fit.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."  Methos got to his feet.  "I'll take you to him if you want…"  He began walking.

If it was time, it was time.  If it wasn't…

"Methos!"  

He stopped, turned.

_"Thu-je—che."_  _Thank you._

Oh just this once then.  "_Kay-nang-gi-ma-ray_."  _You're welcome._

Then he carried on walking.

***

In the morning, Methos waited at the gate with Ingsel.  He had not been bluffing at the lakeside, he would leave, and it would just be one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do.  

And even if Sentinel's didn't have the time, Immortal's did.  There would always be another time.  Another child.

Methos was about ready to go when finally Blair came.  He was still wearing traditional dress but his hair was un-plaited, falling loose around his shoulders in a long halo of curls.

"Ready?"  Methos said, as if he'd never doubted Blair's compliance.

Blair shifted a pathetically small pack onto his back and nodded.  "Yes."  The word was soft but unmistakably English.

Ingsel opened his robes and removed something from its folds.  "I believe this is yours."  He said holding out Blair's shamshir.

Blair took the blade almost awkwardly.  Ingsel had kept it all these years, even though Methos remembered that Blair had wanted nothing more to do with it.

Blair studied his sword for a long while.  The blade had grown dull over the years, but it was still a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.  Then he hid it in his cloak as if it had always been there.  

The monk looked sadly at Blair.  He'd nursed his soul for the last 30 years and the weight of his loss pressed heavily on him.  _"Kah-leh phe."_He murmured.

Blair covered his hands with his own.  "Thank you."

_"Tashi deleh."___

Blair pressed his forehead to the monk's briefly then broke the contact.

Methos adjusted his pack and led the way.  Blair followed a second later.

Neither of them looked back.

They began down the mountain, hard work in such a thin atmosphere.  As they walked, mostly in silence, Methos let his thoughts wander to the boy he'd met in Cascade.  He knew they couldn't go straight to the US.  For a start, he had a promise to keep to Naomi and then there was Blair, who hadn't left the monastery since he'd been brought there.  And before that, he been in a series of concentration camps after being captured in Poland, rounded up with all the other Jews and taken away to die.

It had been a long time since he'd been part of the world, and even longer since he'd been a participant in the Game.

As soon as they got off holy ground, Methos would have to start dusting the rust off of Blair's sword skills. Methos wasn't about to go straight back to Cascade, or anywhere, with a half sane, out of practice Immortal on his hands.

As the sun began to set, Methos called a halt and they set down their mats for the night.   Methos built a small fire and they huddled up close to the flames to eat Losar bread.  When they finished, Methos took out his whetstone and began to sharpen Blair's sword as his friend watched, plaiting his hair for sleep.  

When the blade was bright and deadly, Methos handed it back to Blair.

The younger Immortal took his shamshir and barely had time to parry the blow Methos struck across his blade.

Blair fell back.

Methos waited until he got to his feet.

He didn't get up.  "What is this?"

"Your life."  Methos told him.  "Its what we do."

"I'm not interested in the Game."

"And I'm not interested in watching you commit suicide with next Immortal we meet."

Blair got to his feet, but his shamshir hung loosely from his fingers.

Methos lowered his own sword.  "Go back to the monastery, Blair.  The child needs a Guide, not a-"

The blow was clumsy, but it still knocked Methos off his feet.  The ancient Immortal smiled and countered, catching Blair's shoulder with his blade.  Red ran freely down Blair's arm and he lunged again.

"You lived.  You've grown stronger."  There was satisfaction in Methos' voice.  "Time to fight."

Their blades clashed again and again, glinting in the failing light.  As they fought, Blair tossed off a few layers of clothing off to aid his movements.  Methos smiled as they exchanged blows.  Blair wasn't nearly as rusty as he should be, after so many years away from the Game.  After a while, he worked a few difficult moves in and Blair caught about half of them.

The other half left the younger Immortal breathless and bleeding.  

Then a swing of Methos' sword sliced through the plait of Blair's hair, severing it at the nape of his neck.  Curls loosed around his face and Blair stumbled back.  They both looked down at the braid lying on the ground.

Blair looked up at his friend.  "Hey!"

Methos lowered his sword.  "Good."

"Good?"

"Consider us even over Athens."  He replied simply.  "Now you'll blend in."  He admired the shoulder length riot of curls.  "Very…Beatles."

"Beatles?"

Methos clapped his shoulder.  "You're in for a bit of a surprise, my friend."

~~Fin~~

Glossary

_Keh__-rang ku-su de-bo yin-peh – _How are you?

_Gong-dhaa –_I'm sorry

_Keh-rahng__ - _You

_Dee__ kah-ray ray -_ What is this?

_Kah__-bah – _Where?

_Keh-rahng__ gi ming la khong gi yin – _What is his name?

_Rey__ – _Yes

_Gyah__ tamba geh-chu sum – _One hundred and eighty-three

_Thu-je—che – _Thank you.

_Kay-nang-gi-ma-ray_. - You're welcome.__

_Kah-leh__ phe.__ - _Goodbye

_Tashi__ deleh – _Good luck.

All phrases borrowed from Wordbridge.  Any mistakes are mine.


	3. The Choice

Disclaimer:  I don't own them, etc.

Rating:  PG-13 / 12A

Series:  The "Rebirth" series.

Warnings:  Crossover universe - The Sentinel/Highlander.

Summary:  Blair Sandburg struggles to come to terms with who he is.

** The Choice**

By NorthernStar

Blair stared at the sword in his hand, into his own eyes reflected on the brilliant blade.  He remembered the day Naomi gave him this, with tears streaking her face and a whispered prayer that he wouldn't need to use it.  In the eight centuries he'd carried it, he hadn't taken many heads, far fewer than Immortals half his age.  His journeys through primitive lands and tribal cultures hadn't brought him into contact with many his own kind.  Those that he met usually became friends, allies…

And of the 76 who had not, who had fallen before his blade…

Their faces haunted him still.

But the world changed; that was the only constant in life.  And when the march of western 'civilisation' began to erode the tribal ways, and the incidences of Sentinels fell, Blair had made the choice to leave the path of the Guide and rejoin the world.  He had waited out the finally years of his Sia, and when her body had been ashes, took up his sword and a few possessions and returned to the continent of his birth. Grief eased the choice and anger spurred it. 

But the Europe he returned to was not the one he left.  Its spirit was bowed low under the threat of Nazism, and the march of the self proclaimed Master Race.  Driven by anger at the dispossession of his people, Blair had quickly been caught up in the tide.  Unsure of resistance and war, he did the only thing he could: aiding the desperate rescue of Jewish children.  He could still smell the smoke of the kinder train as it chugged from the station with its precious cargo, the sounds of the families' terrible, terrible grief at being wrenched from their children echoing in his head and finally drowned out by the noise of the engine.  

And then the war began and he'd been trapped in Poland…

Blair snapped himself from the memory.  Around him, the Amazon was alive, movement in the trees and undergrowth, ripples on the pool his legs were dangled in.  The cloying oppressive heat was a long way from the bitter cold of Auschwitz and he let the heat fill his mind.

The press of an Immortal on his conscious alerted him to someone's approach.  The water rippled as Naomi surfaced beside him, her long red hair hanging in tangles down her back.  She looked up at him and then down at the sword.  There was disappointment in her eyes: she knew it meant he was thinking of leaving.  

Without a word, she plucked the blade from his fingers and laid it on the moist soil beside him before lifting herself out of the water and onto the bank.  Water dribbled down her naked body.  He didn't look at her.

"Let it go."  She murmured; soft words from a Jew who'd never known the pure disgust and righteous hatred of the Nazis'.  Naomi had spent the last hundred years here, in the Basin, cloistered away from the holocaust.  She knew virtually nothing of horrors he'd faced, only what Darius had told her after he'd rescued Blair from the camp during its liberation. Darius had taken him to Naomi and she had, in turn, taken him to Tibet and Ingsel.  Herr Mehler and Doktor Josef Mengele had treated him like a thing, an object to do with as they wished.  It was almost bitter humour to realise his friends had done so too.

She wanted Blair to stay here, in the safety of the sacred forest, return to the life they'd had together before the arrival of 'civilisation' and the start of the erosion of the ancient ways of the jungle.  Student and teacher, seeking peace away from the Game: he'd believed that was possible once.  

His head lifted, eyes met hers.  "I can't, Naomi."

Somewhere out there, in the world he barely knew, was a Sentinel child.  And if he wanted to Guide that boy, he would have to join the Game.  North America was a popular destination for Immortals, seeking the burgeoning violence and possible riches of the fledgling nation.

"We…_you_…are so much more than this."  She told him.

When he'd been young and full of fear of the gift inside him and the violence it bred, Blair had thought that too.  Maybe he would again.

But not here, not now: he'd finally been touched by the brutality of his birthright.  He couldn't step back.  

Blair took his shamshir from the ground and held it up.  "_This_ is what we are."

Whatever she might have said was lost under the press of another Immortal.  Blair stood up as Methos made his way through the tangle of greenery.  

Naomi looked up at him.  "Blair…"

He looked back at her, eyes full of regret, then his fingers tightened on his shamshir and he walked towards the oldest.  She watched as the jungle swallowed them.

*

Methos walked, not looking the younger Immortal at his side.  In the months it had taken them to reach Naomi's home, the younger Immortal hadn't spoken much.  He found he missed the youth in his friend, so different for most aged Immortals.  Maybe that Blair was still in there, buried under the past, ready to be reborn.

Methos stopped, turned to look at Blair.  The shamshir, loosely gripped in Blair's hand, glittered in the light.  Blair was probably better now with a blade than he'd ever been.  Methos had taught him well.  

He raised his own sword but Blair's remained low, not accepting the challenge.  They always went through this, but Blair's reluctance was becoming less every time.

"Naomi wants me to stay here."  Blair said.

That came as little surprise.  "Naomi doesn't understand."  Methos lowered his sword.  "She's never felt it. The need for revenge."

Blair's fingers tightened on his sword.

Methos smiled.  "Quite an achievement after one thousand years."

"I'm not…"  The words trailed off.  And the blade lifted.

"You've started living again."  Methos readied his own sword, falling fluidly into a defensive stance.  "It's natural."

"I want to help that boy."

"Of course."  He studied his friend.  "And Herr Mehler?"

Methos watched Blair flinch, saw his hand tighten on his blade.  But the memories didn't overwhelm him as they once did.  "What should I do?"  The question was fierce, whispered harshly.

"Nothing."

Blair just waited.  The boy was like so many others, expecting him to have all the answers because he'd lived just a few thousand years longer than them.  

"Standard response.  Revenge'll get you killed."  He tapped his blade to Blair's.  "This, on the other hand, will save your life."

The rage suddenly burst free.  "He experimented on me and hundreds of others!"

"Then hope one of them will do the job for you."

"THEY'RE ALL DEAD!  They're all dead because of him!"   

**3rd June 1943******

Blair awoke under bodies, the press of the filthy naked people crushing the air from his newly healed lungs.  They stank, even worse than when they'd been herded into the showers for…de-lousing.  But the pipes had released gas and not the promised water, the acrid smell of it quickly overriding the stench of the unwashed bodies.  Then the choking began and the bodies around him voided themselves at the point of death.

He immediately felt another of his kind and then the bony corpses were being shifted to aid his struggle free from their weight.  When he pulled himself up, Blair came face to face with another Immortal.

Herr Mehler smiled down on him.  "I will have your head, Jew."  He promised softy before another man, a mortal, approached.  Blair bowed his head.  Doktor Josef Mengele stared down at him; his eyes were wide and full of awe.

"It is just as you say, Herr Mehler!  He lives again!"  He looked at Mehler.  "You must tell me how, I beg of you."

Mehler knelt beside Blair, taking his chin between his thumb and finger and tilting his face up.  "I do not know."  He said.  

"But you knew!  How did you know he would rise again?"

"I have seen his kind before, Herr Doktor."

"I must know his secrets!"

Mehler smiled "We shall find those answers together."

***

"Mortals die.  Its unfair but I don't make the rules."

Blair raised his sword and approached.  Methos didn't flinch, didn't move.  

"My head won't bring them back, Sandburg."

Blair's sword clattered to the ground, his body folding after it like a puppet with its strings cut.  He stayed like that for a long time, on his knees, head bowed.  Then his head rose.  "Neither will Mehler's."  

But the echo of Naomi's teaching sound like just that – an echo.  It didn't sound like something Blair believed anymore.

"I know where he is."  Methos said finally.  "Mehler."

Blair looked up at his teacher.  There were no tears in his eyes, just acceptance of his birthright.

"I…have a few connections."  Methos murmured.  The oldest held up his sword.  "It's your choice…"

*

The clash of metal on metal sent birds fluttering into the sky and animals racing for cover.  In the tribal hut, Naomi's eyes opened; the depth of her mediation broken by the sound.

So Blair had chosen war after all…

~~Fin~~

Historical Note:  While Herr Mehler is my own creation, Doktor Josef Mengele did exist and conducted grotesque experiments at Auschwitz on anyone he deemed aberrant, in particular twins.  Out of the 3,000 he used, only 160 survived.

The kindertrain was also very real, taking children from Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia to safety in Britain.  It was responsible for saving the lives of 10,000 Jewish children.  Many of them never saw their parents again.

Remember Auschwitz.

~~~ 27 January 1945~~~

Lest We Forget.


	4. End and Beginning

Disclaimer:  I don't own them, etc.

Rating:  PG-13 / 12A

Series:  The "Rebirth" series.

Warnings:  Crossover universe - The Sentinel/Highlander.

Notes:  Fourth in the "Rebirth" crossover series (listing appears at the end of the fic.)  This takes place approximately six months after the end of "The Choice."

**End and Beginning**

By NorthernStar

After ten days, his wrist still itched.  Methos rubbed the black tattoo and silently cursed the unsteady hand of the elderly Watcher who had seared the brand into his skin.  Ink and blood had dribbled down his fingers, mingled on the floor.  The herbs he'd taken to slow Immortal healing enough to allow this to be done without suspicion had worked almost too well.  The wound had bled copiously, leaving him weak and sleepy.  It had finally scabbed over, if only for a day, disappearing in a blink when the effects of the herbs wore off.  Its presence was a novelty; the first scab he'd had in 5000 years.   

He'd picked at it.

Methos returned his hands to his pockets and kept on walking.  His breath misted on the frigid air and in the distance Big Ben tolled the hour.  He counted eleven and considered turning back, pausing for a moment.  Just as he made the decision to go on, he felt the presence of one of his own kind behind him.

Methos turned, scanning the empty street.  He drew his sword.  

A figure detached itself from the shadows - narrow and lithe, infinitely familiar. He lowered his blade.

"Naomi."

It had occurred to him that she might follow them to England.  Her ties to Blair ran deep, almost maternal in strength.  They had both seen the fear in her eyes, that last day in the jungle, when Blair had shrugged his pack onto his back and prepared to accompany Methos to Europe.  She'd refused to say goodbye, refused even to watch them leave.

She didn't speak to Blair.

The younger Immortal had grieved over her choice, but it didn't stop him.

Naomi came closer.  "Don't do this."  

The mark on his wrist throbbed, reminding him of the bargains he'd made…on Blair's behalf as much as his own.  Sentimentality, he knew of old, was for the weak or the stupid…and yet he found himself constantly infected.

Some of that was Blair's fault; he formed bonds with just a few words.

**England****, 1393**

The last thing Methos heard was Mary's screams.  The last thing he felt before the flames took him was the press of an Immortal on the fringes of his awareness.  And his last thought was that, after over 4000, this really wasn't the way to lose his head.

Sensation returned too quickly, his body still healing from the deep, searing burns.  The presence of an Immortal struggled for attention on nerves overloaded with pain.  

"Lie still."  The unseen Immortal advised.  There was a hint of Scots in the soft tones.  "You'll heal soon enough."  

Cool water was dribbled over his skin, bringing sweet relief.  His eyelids were cracked and puffy; opening them was like slicing at his eyes with blunt knives but he did it all the same.  A young man knelt over him, a boy really, physically no older than 20 summers, and probably not much more than that in Immortal terms.  His short curls were singed and blackened, presumably from dragging Methos out of the flames.

"As soon as you're able to ride," the man told him, "you can take my horse."

It was a generous gift, but then the boy was young.  He'd learn soon enough.

Methos struggled to sit.  "Mary…?"

The Immortal glanced over his own shoulder then shifted around, barring Methos' view.  "Don't look."  

But he caught a glimpse all the same – a red-haired woman tending to a smoking, blackened lump, all that was left of...  

_Mary_…

His wife had been burned as a witch by a village of men she had delivered as babies and woman who she had nursed through labour.  How else could they explain her husband never growing old?  

Methos closed his eyes.  They should never have come back, but Mary had wanted to see her kin one last time before she died.  He hadn't been able to refuse her that.  He'd kept so much from her already, a home, children and grandchildren…

"Who…who are you?"  His healing throat cracked, but the pain was lessening.

"Lulach Blair."  The brogue thickened considerably.  He held out a cup.

Methos sipped the water gratefully.  "Thank you."

"What is your name?"

His mouth was suddenly enveloped by another, bruising his tender healing lips.  

The person drew back, smiling at him. 

"Methos."  Naomi caressed his face.  "His name is Methos."

***

"This is Blair's fight, Naomi."

"Then why are you fighting it for him?!"

"I could ask the same of you."  He met her eyes.  "Mehler-"

But the press of an Immortal on their senses stopped them.  They turned, reaching for their swords.  Another Immortal walked towards them, light from the lamps casting everything dark/bright with fluorescence.  

Methos drew his broadsword.  

Mehler's lip curled in disgust.  He was a wide man, twice the width of Methos, with heavy jowls peppered with stubble.  

"I have no fight with you."  He told him and his eyes narrowed, issuing the threat. "Yet."

"Oh…"  Methos held up his blade and began walking towards Mehler.  "…we don't always need a reason to fight."

Mehler drew his own sword, the curved blade of the talwar glistened in the light.  "Back down now."

Methos stopped, leaving a gap of several yards between them.  "We have a mutual friend," he told him as if they were having a normal conversation.  "Blair Sandburg."

"Blair…"  He chuckled.  "_Blair_…a filthy little Jew.  He humiliated himself before me every day, on his knees at my feet, pissing with fear like the pig he was.  He begged me to take his miserable head."

There was a sound of metal grating against metal, a sword being unsheathed and Naomi lunged with a roar.  Methos cursed as Mehler began laying into her.  But the challenge had been made.  He couldn't interfere.

The fight raged, metal spat fire and sparks against metal and underneath it all, the sound of Naomi crying.  But she didn't shrink from the violence.  Her grief at her actions, at the anger and hate inside her didn't stop or distract her.  For an Immortal who shunned aggression and killing, Naomi was damned good at it.

There was a crack, the sound of metal sliced by metal and half of Naomi's Wen Jian clattered to the ground.  She blocked Mehler's next blow with what was left, the force of it sending her reeling.  

Methos watched as Mehler stalked closer to her.  Naomi got to her feet but with a simple unchallenged slice of his blade, he cut across her belly, opening the flesh and she fell again.

Methos' hand tightened on his sword.  This was where anger got you, where revenge led, what happened to those who placed loyalty and friendship over there own survival.  

This was what you got for not caring for your blade.

Mehler stood over her.  There was no fear in her eyes.

"Blair…did nothing…to you…"

"He lived."  He chided gently.  "He was Jewish and he lived."

Methos held up his sword.  "The moment you take her head," he told him, admiring his own blade, "I take yours."

Mehler chuckled.  "So much for rules."

"Oh I've always thought rules were open to interpretation, much like anything else."

Mehler laughed and stepped away from Naomi, centring his attention on Methos.  "I never took you for a head-hunter…Goldstein."  

Methos didn't react to the recognition, but it surprised him.  He'd lain so low these last few centuries, living quietly away from the Game, just surviving, that not many of Immortals younger than 1000 knew him in any persona.  

On the ground, Naomi's eyes flickered to Methos.  Her breath came in gasps now and the floor was a river of red, the stench of her blood and spilled guts filling the air around them.

"Peter Goldstein…"  Mehler smiled at Jewish name, letting the hatred drip from the word in a way he'd had to suppress since the war ended.  "…yes I know who you are.  However did you escape my death camps, Jew?  I would have liked another subject to study.  You could have been my control group."  And he laughed.  "Forget friendship, forget loyalty, doctor, Blair isn't worth it.  You should concentrate on staying alive."

Staying alive…  Good advice.  There was irony in there.

A few steps away, Naomi gasped her last breath, blood gurgling thickly in her throat – a dead testament to the futility of revenge.

Now there's a bitter thought.

Mehler drew a breath.  "He never appreciated the _value_ of our work.  I understand so much about Immortals now, the answers."  He smiled.  "What is the Quickening, doctor?  Do you know?"

Coldness slipped along his bones.  It took a moment to remember what the sensation was – fear, deep pitiless _real_ fear.

"You did it all for the Prize."

"I did for the science, doctor.  The Prize is just unexpected bonus."  

Methos' fingers tightened on his blade and he raised his sword.  A flash of black on his wrist caught his eye as his hand moved up – the tattoo, the bargains he'd made.  

This wasn't his fight.  

Yet.  

"He begged me every day to take his head."  Mehler murmured.  "Wept it to me.  Sobbed it to me.  But I was waiting.  Waiting for the right moment to take his Quickening."

"Well that's quite a coincidence."  Methos said, reaching into his coat.  "Blair was waiting too, he just didn't know it."  He drew his hand back out.  "And you know, his moment is now."

And Methos held out a gun and shot him.

***

The apartment block was cold and rat-infested, but it was all Blair could afford.  The money he had before the war had been stolen by the Nazis, yet another thing they'd taken from him.  But comfort was something he'd learned to live without; he had lived in far worse places and survived.  This was luxury in comparison.  

Blair paused in his typing and thought of Naomi.  She was dominating his thoughts more than he cared to admit.  He had missed her during the years he'd spent in Tibet and their brief reunion had healed him in a way that no amount of Buddhist peace or teachings could ever bring him.

Her refusal to say goodbye had cut deeper than any psychical wound.  He knew she was afraid for him, worried what Methos might teach him.  _No more killing…_She'd pleaded long ago, _Blair…please…_

But there was violence in his soul now and it didn't come from the ancient Immortal.

Like all things of importance in life, it was hard won.  Mehler had taught him more about cruelty and violence than he would ever need to know.

And as for Methos' teachings, there was little time for that.  The oldest Immortal came and went from the city, drifting off into the gaudy confusing world outside the tiny apartment, sometimes for weeks on end.  But he always returned.  The last time, he bore a tattoo on his wrist but refused to answer any questions about it.

Blair returned to his typing, the quiet tap-tap-tap of the keys the only sound in the cold room.  Methos had given him the machine and showed him how it worked, how to use all ten fingers to pour out the words in his head.  It gave him something to do, night after night, while Methos went wherever he went, tapping out his memories on to paper.

Maybe he'd be free of them that way.

Then he felt it and his head snapped up.  He reached for his sword, propped up against the desk.  But the door unlocked and Methos stalked in, eyes grim as he dumped down a roll of carpet on the bare floor.

"I've found him."  He said and kicked the carpet.  

Blair went white as the pale, limp and very dead body of Herr Mehler rolled out.

***

The cold he felt in his bones didn't come from the bitter morning air seeping through the many cracks around the windows.  It was inside, somewhere deeper, somewhere where light and warmth hadn't reached in so long.

Blair watched the man who had tortured him slowly regain consciousness, seeing the extra fat in his face, the shorter hair.  He'd moved on.  And yet…

Blair had not.  

Outside in the street, the clamour of children making their way to school broke the stillness, filtering in through the open window and echoing in his head.  Blair listened to them, laughing and happy but all he really _heard_ was the remembered screams of the twins as Mengele and Mehler dreamed up yet another grotesque "experiment."

Methos had retreated to the window, his back to them, drinking warm beer from a brown bottle.  His part was done, but he wasn't leaving. 

Mehler struggled to his feet.  His lip curled when he saw Blair.  "You."  He spat.  He looked at Methos.  "Coward!"  He looked at Blair.  "_Cowards_!  You betray our Rules!"

Blair glanced at Methos, unsure.  But the oldest continued to stare out the window, sprawled on the chair as if he hadn't heard a word.

Blair swallowed.  This wasn't how he saw it happening.  This didn't feel right.

"Do you remember me?"  He asked Mehler.  The words felt heavy and thick on his tongue.  

Mehler stared at him with undisguised hatred.  "Murder isn't something you had a stomach for as I recall."

"And it was nothing to you."

Mehler shook his head.  "_You_ were nothing to me.  To kill nothing _is_ nothing."  He sounded like he was explaining a simplicity to a very dense child.  "Jews are nothing more than vermin."  A smile lit across his face.  "And Immortal Jews…a rare speciality…of vermin."

Footsteps interrupted them and Methos came to stand in front of Mehler.

Blair stood up.  "You can't interfere."

Methos retreated to the chair, putting his feet up on the window sill and swallowing down more beer.

Mehler watched him and then his eyes flickered back to Blair.  "I'm unarmed."

"So was I."

"I never took your head."

Blair backed over to the roll of carpet Methos had used to carry Mehler's body, never taking his eyes off the Immortal.  He reached into the folds and drew out Mehler's talwar.  There was dried blood staining the blade.  He glanced at Methos, wondering what injury he'd taken to do this.

He threw it at Mehler, who grasped it quickly.

Blair readied his own sword, the beautiful ornate shamshir as ready for this as he was.  

And in that peace, Blair found now the words he'd kept to himself for so long.

"I wasn't Jewish."  The words came so easily he didn't know why he'd never said them before.  "My teacher was.  She gave me my name, my religion, this sword…"  His eyes flickered to the blade.  "You took them all, but only because I let you.  It ends now."

Enlightenment dawned on Mehler's face, as if he'd just figured something out.  He touched his blade.  "I took more than you know, Jew.  This is her blood!"

With a scream, Blair lunged and the clash of steel echoed around them.  

***

Methos watched the fight.  Blair was strong, stronger than he'd ever been, but Mehler had many more Quickenings on him.  His chronicle had been full of victories over opponents older and stronger than Blair.

Time blurred into the clash of metal, blood flowed, staining the floor.  Then the crash sensation of an approaching Immortal distracted Mehler for just a fraction of a second.  It was all Blair needed to slice through the backs on Mehlers thighs and send him to his knees before his victor.  

Blair stared down at him, face completely calm.  He raised his sword.  

"_No_!"

***

Blair flinched at the sound, a voice he'd know for centuries.  He looked up, just for a second.  Naomi stopped in the doorway.  She was coated in blood but _alive_.  And maybe that should have stopped him, but it didn't.

Mehler gazed up at him and Blair saw the calmness inside himself reflected on his face.

"Blair…" Naomi pleaded, "…this isn't you."

He didn't dare take his eyes from Mehler, but he could feel Naomi watching him like a brand against his skin.  He remembered her tears when he said he was after revenge.

"I'm sorry."  He said, and he knew that wasn't just for Naomi, but for himself too, and Methos…

…and even Mehler, because his teacher was right.  This wasn't him.  But sometimes, evil had to be met with evil.

His sword came down, severing his nightmares.

Mehler's broken body slumped forward and Blair fell beside it.

He could hear crying but felt no wetness on his own cheeks.  He looked up.  Naomi too had crumpled to her knees, her lovely face streaked with tears.  It was the last thing he saw before the Quickening took him.

Writhing in its grip, riding, screaming, twisting…the electricity ripped him apart and reassembled him.  The tongues lashed over every inch of his skin, in exquisite pleasure/pain, invading every orifice, spiking into his eyes, cracking inside his ears, crawling down his throat…

And then it was over.

Blair collapsed, gasping for breath.  

The bare boards were hard beneath him but he couldn't rise, couldn't make a move to stop what was happening.  Naomi wiped tears from her face and stumbled to her feet.

Blair watched helpless as she walked out of the apartment.

She didn't look back.

Heightened, vulnerable from the quickening, he couldn't stop the outpour of emotion as sobs wracked his chest.  He didn't know who he was crying for, himself, Naomi…Mehler…

Or Mehler's victims, silenced now inside Blair, finally avenged.

Someone touched his shoulder and he looked up into Methos' eyes.

"Now it's over."  Methos told him.

***

Blair paused in his packing, looking at the sheets of paper piled by his bed, all the ugliness he's written.  Memories he couldn't share with anyone but his own mind.

Methos went to pick them up.

"Leave them."  He said.  "I don't need them anymore."

Methos cradled the writings.  "I'll keep them for you." He offered and scratched the tattoo on his wrist again, frowning at the mark; one day Blair would have to ask him what it was.

Blair's eyes flickered to the papers held against Methos' chest then away, back to his face.  It was always hard giving up a piece of yourself, but Immortals got quite good at it, given enough time.  He lifted his pack and headed for the door.  "Then they're yours."

"What are you going to do?"

Blair paused in the doorway.  "Find the boy."

Then he turned and walked away.

~~~Fin~~~

Author's Notes:  A reference to Methos witnessing midwifes being burned as witches was made in "Not to be." Anyone interested in Methos' life as "Peter Goldstein" should check out my HL fic "The Letter" housed at fanfiction.net. Blair is indeed a Scottish Clan name and has its own tartan.  The Wen Jian or "scholar's sword" is used primarily for self-defence.  It's just the sort of thing an Immortal Naomi would use.


	5. Full Circle

Disclaimer:  I don't own them, etc.

Rating:  PG-13 / 12A

Series:  The "Rebirth" series.

Warnings:  Crossover universe - The Sentinel/Highlander.

Summary:  Blair and Methos come full circle…

**Full Circle**

By NorthernStar

There was a bitter chill to the wind.  The roses he'd laid on the grave sweetly scenting the cold air.  There was no snow beneath his feet this time, but the passing of time was marked by little change.  The grave had been well tendered, flowers freshly laid, the headstone smooth and bright.

A year wasn't so long to a man whose life spanned millennia, and yet he felt more weighed down by the long months than he had for over a century.  Leanne's tragic passing seemed so long ago, so buried in the past.

Methos didn't often indulge in memories.  The past was the past.  But right here, on the safety of Holy Ground, he allowed himself to remember.  Her smile, her laughter…the little gasp she'd made as her life was stolen from her...

Methos felt the approach of an Immortal and turned, hand falling beside his sword even though he was on Holy Ground, even though he knew who it would be.

But the figure walking towards him, bundled up against the cold wasn't the one he was expecting.  The Immortal was willowy and light and the tread was wrong.

For Blair at least; Methos recognised it all the same.  

He knew she would find them soon enough.

Naomi had cut her hair close to her head, almost shaved and she wore beatnik clothes and beads.  As she came closer, he could see her eyes were shadowed and reddened.  And in them was something Methos had never seen before - age.

Naomi was _old_.

She had, in many ways, but not in all, needed Blair more than he needed her, even in his days as a student.  And what better definition of a parent is there?

Naomi knelt at Leanne's grave and placed a small hand picked posy of wild flowers next to the roses Methos had laid.  She looked up at him.  "You always did care so much for mortals."

He wasn't in the mood for this.  "Leave, Naomi."

"I have to find Blair."

Methos gestured around them.  "He's not here."

She stood.  "I know he was coming to Cascade."  She looked him in the eyes.  "Tell me where he is."

"No."

"I need him."

"But he doesn't need you.  Seven centuries he followed you around like a puppy and where did it get him?  Slaughtered with the Jews.  He was lucky he didn't lose his head."

"I raised him."

"You made him in your own image, Naomi, and when he failed to live up to that standard you turned your back on him."

"I was angry."

"So was Blair.  You should have accepted that."

"I regret what I did."

"You're Immortal.  Live with it."

"I just…I want to…"  She swallowed.  "I need to know if he still loves me."

Her eyes glittered with unshed tears and he sighed.

Methos turned away from her.  "In 800 years, Naomi, he's never loved anyone else…"

**Scotland****, 1350**

The rag over her mouth and nose scratched and irritated, but at least it kept out the terrible smell of death and decay.  The village was almost empty, but the turbulence of the muddy ground spoke of movement - the tread of the living, the furrows made by the dead as their bodies were dragged from the homes, hoof marks of both horses and cattle.  The silence mingled with the stench of sickness, hanging over the mud, playing to her fears.  She almost froze mid-step at the horror of it all, but the determination in her gut forced her on. 

Steeling herself against the ugliness coiling inside her, Naomi shifted her bag of medicines and preparations and picked her way through the puddles and grime, going further into the village.  As she walked, she scanned the faces of the few villagers she did see wandering around.  Who looked desperate enough?  Who might trust a stranger?  She had no wish to be burned as a heretic or a witch again.

A young woman, hunched over, her bundled child clutched to her chest, wandered close.  Naomi put out her hand.

"I can help you."  She said, "I have some cures, poultices, medicines to draw out the fever."

Fear leapt into the woman's eyes and she pulled away, hugging her child even closer.  "Witch!"  She hissed harshly and hurried away.

Naomi watched her go then continued on her way.  At the farthest end of the village was small hut.  She might have passed straight on but the sound of a newborn wailing stopped her, the high pitched cry sounding strangled and sick.  

Carefully Naomi pulled aside the rags hung in the doorway and went inside.  She followed the sound to the back where more cloth had been hung to partition the bed away from the main area, providing some measure of privacy and warmth.  Through the thin weave she saw a small hunched figure.  She pulled back the cloth to see it was a small boy.  

He sat on the bed, clutching a bundle of rags to his chest - kicking and moving and wailing.  Naomi swallowed back tears; the baby's cry growing weaker by the second.  She leaned forward and saw the baby's head and chest peeking out of the bundle.  Then she pulled her eyes away quickly, the boils had already blackened.

There was no hope.  

Naomi ignored the tears that sprung up in her eyes, forced down the revulsion in her stomach and reached out for the baby all the same.  She might not be able to save this little life, but she knew just the right herbs to ease its passing.  

The boy's grip tightened on the baby, cowering away from her, eyes wide with fear.  They stared at each other, faces barely inches apart.  It was the first time Naomi had really looked at the boy and she caught her breath.  He was pre-immortal.

"Let me help."  She pleaded and again reached for the baby.

The boy's resistance was weak and Naomi easily plucked the newborn from his grasp.

She cradled the baby, hushing its dull cries.  "Where is your kin?"

Wide eyes spilled tears and a thin hand brushed her arm as the boy reached out to stroke the baby's head.  

"None else?"

The boy shook his head.

Naomi stroked his cheek, brushed back the nest of curls.  "What is your name?"

"Lulach…" the boy murmured, "Lulach Blair."

"Blair…"  She repeated.

*

Tears tracked down Naomi's face.  Methos brushed them away with his thumb.  She relaxed into the caress a moment then stepped back.  He accepted the distance between them.  Time passed, rain began to fall. 

"I saw the boy."  She said eventually, breaking the silence.  "The Sentinel.  On the news."

His mouth quirked up.  "Naomi Sandburg has a television set."  He murmured.  "We must be in the twentieth century."

She smiled.  "If Blair…if Blair's with him…tell him I love him."

"He already knows."

She wrapped her cloak tighter around her.  "I'll be at St Sebastian's."  She told him and turned to go.  "If he asks."

Methos didn't watch her leave.

*

Blair watched the news crews swarm around the grand house.  They'd been there every day since the murder of Karl Heydash.  He saw the curtains twitch upstairs and caught a brief glimpse of the boy before he was pulled back from the window.   He had tried for days to get close to the boy, knowing he needed a Guide now more than ever, but the family were closed off, shutting themselves away behind the doors.

The sky darkened with approaching rain, and when it began to pelt out of the sky, Blair tugged up the collar of his coat and prepared to leave.

Movement in the corner of his eyes stopped him.  He turned and squinting over the distance, saw the child creep out of the back of the house and through the fences to a neighbour's garden.  From there, the little figure hurried out onto the street and began running.

Towards Blair…

The Ellison kid sprinted down the street, heading straight for Blair, looking behind himself at the crowds.  He looked back where he was going almost too late to avoid crashing into Blair, swerving at the last moment.  Blair jumped back, utterly surprised, and shocked by this sudden meeting.

He didn't have a clue as to what to say.

"I'm sorry."  The boy said.

"Um…that's OK."  He frowned.  "Are you all right?"

The boy stared up at him, eyes red.  His lips moved as if his immediate reaction was to reply.  And of course it was, the Sentinel always responds to the Guide. 

But the words never came, that instinct dying away like dust in the wind.

_Too late…___

The knowledge echoed in his heart and Blair searched the child's face, seeking something – anything – to prove him wrong.  But beyond the surface, there was only grief and confusion and pain.  The rest was buried.

_…Always too late…_

Then the boy turned and ran.  

*

There was another Immortal by the grave when he returned at dusk, pressing on his senses as he approached.  Blair didn't look around, letting him stop beside him before offering his teacher a smile.

Methos hadn't seen Blair in several months and there was a confidence in his bearing that hadn't been there before.  "You wear civilisation well, my friend."

Blair smoothed out his shirt.  "It didn't impress the dean of the boy's school."  

"Ellison's been through a lot.  Mortals are nothing if not protective of their children."  Immortal too, he thought, and thought of Naomi.  

He didn't speak her name.

"He's not a Sentinel."  Blair admitted.  "Not anymore."

"He found a way to deal with it."  Methos looked away.  "We all do."

Blair took out his sword and thrust it into the ground.  "I did all this for him."  He murmured.  "Mehler…Naomi…All of it."

The ancient Immortal rolled his eyes.  "Enough with the self sacrifice."  Methos sneered.  "You did this for you."

The younger man paused a moment, thinking, and then…   "You did this for me."

"And don't go canonising me either.  If I hadn't have dragged you off that mountain someone else would.  Probably would've had you're your head for it too."

"But you didn't."

"Don't think I didn't consider it."  He told him blankly.  "So don't go casting me in the role of your saviour because it doesn't suit me."

Blair simply smiled at him and Methos let it ride.  The silence that fell was companionable.

Blair broke the peace first.  "I wasted so much time."  He admitted softly.

"Living may be preferable to just surviving," Methos told him, "but just surviving is better than the alternative."

He watched as Blair considered that.  Perhaps that was the one true gift of Immortality, time to do with as you pleased, even if that was sitting on a mountain side haunted by memories.  "Words to live by."  His tone was light, but the meaning ran deeper.  Methos heard the undercurrent and smiled.

"Served me well the last 5000 years."

"He'll remember.  Given time."

"Perhaps."

"And now?"

"Now you live."

Blair looked up at him. 

"Look on this as…rebirth, a second chance."  Methos looked out to the horizon.  "I think we should start with Las Vegas."

**Twenty-two years later… **

Blair tied his hair back, aware of the appreciative glances of the nurse.  She held out the name badge she'd swiped earlier that day.

Blair looked at him.  "Dr McCoy?"

"Yeah, go figure, huh?"  She grinned, raking her eyes over him again.  "Still, least you'll remember that."

"I will?"  
"Yeah, you know, Bones?"

He looked blankly at her.  

"You know…"  She screwed her face up and launched into a bizarre accent.  "…'I'm a doctor, not an anthropologist.'"

Blair frowned.  "I am an anthropologist."

"Geez, Blair, didn't you ever watch Star Trek."

"No."  He replied honestly.  Despite a couple of decades as 'student boy' Blair, there were a few gaps in the persona.  But the mannerisms he'd picked up in the seventies during his time in a commune seemed to offset that with most people.

She frowned, "really?"  She cocked her head to one side and gave him a wicked grin.  "Come over to my house tonight, bring dip.  I have the whole series on tape.  Sweetie, you're in for a threat!"

***

Blair took a breath and entered the room.  The well built man inside looked at him and Blair was suddenly struck by the memory of the boy this man had once been.

He smiled.  He'd only been waiting for this minute for two hundred years…

"Detective Ellison?"  Blair said, "I'm Dr. McKay."

~~Fin~~

**~~~~~~~~~~THE END~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Historical Notes:  The Black Death plague reached Scotland in 1349 and over the following two years killed as many as 200,000 people.  The population at that time was only around 1 million.

TS Canon Notes:  Jim's suppression of the murder of Karl Heydash and his senses occurred in "Remembrance."  Blair impersonated Dr McCoy and first met Jim in "The Switchman."


End file.
